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The amuse-bouche was water chestnuts and duck air.
The sous-chefs came out of the closet
for us, and their courage was as palatable

as a raspberry. An aniseed was broken open
in the other room, and our wine underwent a small
change (that being its forty-second

birthday and all). We applauded the wine for this,
and, much to our surprise, our hands clapped up a micro-dust
that smelt of frozen celery and germs. A decoy

course was served, throwing us for a loop.
It was plated in a collapsible polyethylene house and diverted
our attention just long enough for the ether to kick in.

After a few hours laughing and sharing secrets,
the appetizer arrived. It was dandelion greens with
a bear-tooth enamel vinaigrette, fried giblets and giblet foam,

and two roasted hazelnuts. The horniness of the dishwashing staff
was beginning to move into the dining area, so the host wheeled
a pale eunuch through the dining room to equalize

the atmosphere. The post-appetizer was a listening course.
Canary whistles and horse hooves clacking on a paved road. It was meant
to evoke jam and peanut butter, but my partner and I agreed

it was not sweet enough. For the main course, we were given
each a Swahili name and taught a kind of rural Nyanzan dialect, the better
to enjoy the goat meat, which was prepared simply, in a car fire.

Dessert was an edible concept. A kind of white chocolate arithmetic
that was more befuddling the more you understood it. It was served with an
uroboros-shaped tuile wafer, which repeatedly consumed and created itself.

On the cab ride home, we passed a theatre playing old movies,
and my partner remarked, “It’s a shame that we weren’t given popcorn.”
And indeed it was a shame. It was a shame that the restaurant was real,
and not some old, old movie.

This appeared in the October 2014 issue.

About the Author(s)

Vincent Colistro has contributed to Hazlitt, Geist, and The Walrus.

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